If At First
by tanyart
Summary: Because there are only so many chances you can take before you miss it completely. Altair/Maria, pre-Altair/Malik/Maria.
1. try try again

Prompt: leisure, preparation

(See profile link for full version. I'm sticking the non-porny bits here.)

* * *

It was far too early when Malik caught Altair slipping through the lattice awning, the moonlight painting shadows of vines and leaves across the white of his robes. Altair had landed lightly on his feet, fingers brushing the ground, before he got up and crossed the distance of the room to press his lips against Malik's closed mouth, quiet and determined.

He did not stop, even when Malik stood unmoving and silent, and Malik _knew_—because how could he _not_?—from the way Altair's eyes lingered every time he visited, and the downward turn of his mouth when he eventually looked away. His kisses were soft and patient, but Malik was not ready to wholly give himself to a man whose past still left a bitter taste in the back of his throat, in spite of his assurances that there was nothing to forgive.

Nothing to forgive, and yet he still needed more time to think, to clear his heart and mind. Malik drew back, so sure in his refusal that he repeated himself, gentle and firm.

It surprised him, a little, that Altair did not try to explain himself or apologize, and that he did not try to steal another kiss in between the moments Malik had said _no_ and _stop_. He had let go of Malik's shoulders, nodding only once; he did not look happy, but neither did he appear heartbroken or very much hurt.

If anything, it was that quiet acceptance that left Malik staring after him as he retreated back to his pallet, breathless and wondering how long he would have to wait until Altair tried again.


	2. retcon

It would be many months before Malik could look at Altair and not feel the ghostly sensation of his non-existent left arm, and many years before he could laugh without reservation and not expect to hear Kadar laugh right back at him.

The day he did, though, was not one he could remember. It had been something trivial—the glimpse of a master assassin tripping gracelessly over his robes, or maybe a bad and misleading translation of one of Altair's books—but Malik had laughed, unheeded and without malice.

From then on, it became wonderful and easy, especially whenever he caught Altair and Maria in the struggles of new parenthood. His laughter did not go unnoticed by them, perhaps for the worst, as they frequently threw soiled rags his way when they heard him snickering.

"Try this," he said, and adjusted the squalling baby in Maria's arms so that the infant's head was resting against her padded shoulder. He brought out a ball of cloth from the cup he carried, dipped in goat's milk and honey, and stuck it in its mouth, a common trick he had seen mothers do in the marketplace.

The room went blessedly quiet for one moment, but before Altair and Maria could breathe a sigh of relief, the cloth was spat out, as if with a vengeance, and once more the baby's cries echoed throughout the fortress.

"Truly, the boy is your son," Malik said dryly.

"If I wasn't so tired, I would hit you," Maria replied, rocking back and forth in a weak attempt to appease the baby. Surprisingly, the infant started to settle, and Maria's expression brightened.

Altair grinned, eyes fixed on his wife, and Malik was suddenly reminded of moonlight and the shadows of latticework and leaves. He stilled, just like before, but with dangerous thoughts flitting into his mind that _hadn't_ been there like last time.

Then Altair glanced at him, still grinning, and Malik would swear it was with the same look from years ago, quiet and determined._Waiting, just waiting._

And Malik had no one to blame but himself when he allowed Altair to reach forward, hand outstretched, to deliver a playful slap against his head, jarring his thoughts completely.

"There you go," Altair said, cheerful.

Maria scowled, "I didn't need _your_ help for that," and shifted the baby so that she could bring her hand to Malik's face. She tapped against his cheek, once, and was far gentler than Altair. Her calloused fingertips lingered and she looked at him, a slight knit of a worry over her brow. Malik stared back, blankly, unsure of what to make of her anxious expression—whether it was on his behalf, or her own. She smiled, almost tentative, and softly tapped his cheek again before Altair could notice their exchange—or perhaps he did, and had stayed silent while Malik stood rigid and stricken.

He made some excuse, weak and flimsy—another blanket for the baby, something to drink for Maria—anything to escape the room, leave the two—_three_—of them happy, as if his misery was somehow contagious.

And, to his eternal surprise, it was not Altair who followed him as he fled to the gardens, but Maria, still with the baby cloth drawn over her shoulder and colorful food stains on her tunic. She sat next to him on the grass and laid her hand on his head, unrepentant and unconcerned for decorum. The silence enveloped them and Malik was uncertain of her presence, if it was warm like a blanket or if it stifled like one.

"I used to hate him, too," she said, speaking to his hands, since he had covered his face with them, rubbing viciously at his temples. "But the damn bastard has a way of changing minds and hearts."

Malik laughed, surprised to hear the note of genuine humor as he did, and drew his hands away. "I can't imagine how you can stand it."

Maria raised an eyebrow, perhaps picking up on the double-edge of his words. "Sometimes I wonder the same about you."

She was earnest. The way she said it, though, was a curious thing—half with wonder and half with the reserve of keeping something much more incriminating from her tone. It would be easier to despise her, Malik thought, but it would not be the same, to share that certain look with her—the look they shared now as Altair came into the gardens, with the baby in his arms.

"How can you two abandon me in my time of need?" the Grandmaster whispered fiercely, but the baby was sleeping peacefully, so he had only come over to gloat, most likely.

And he was too focused on his son to notice how Maria's fingers threaded through Malik's hair and how she leaned to his ear, breath soft against his cheek.

"When you are ready, then," she murmured. "We will talk."

Malik felt rather than saw her draw away, as if the blanket had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving a chill he did not know was there. He was about to move aside, but Maria had taken the ends of Altair's robes to tug him down to join them. And whether by chance or Maria's indirect control, Altair sat next to Malik, keeping the dai in between him and his wife, shoulders bumping together. When he leaned closer, it was to proudly show Maria the slumbering baby over Malik's lap.

But, maybe, Altair's eyes had flickered for a moment to glance at him, and when Maria bent closer to kiss the baby—hair brushing against his cheek—Malik could pretend, if only for a little while, that the warmth from both sides included him as well.


End file.
